


Born To Die

by staccato



Series: Harry Mikaelson [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:30:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5076109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staccato/pseuds/staccato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henrik is born again, screaming and kicking as the pain of the werewolf bite burns in his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Henrik is born again, screaming and kicking as the pain of the werewolf bite burns in his side.

It takes a vial of dreamless sleep to quiet him, and James breathes out a sigh of relief as Lily finally unclenches their hands. The midwife hands them the newborn carefully, a tired smile on her lips with a congratulations on her tongue.

"Thank you," James replies, because Lily is to busy examining the child to pay attention to manners.

After a night, they bring him home to their cottage in Godric's Hallow. Peter is the first to visit, hands shaking anxiously as he holds the sleeping baby. Remus apparates two days later eyes blood shot as he recovers from the full moon. Sirius knocks on their door after a week has passed, under eyes dark from the recent increase in Death Eaters activity.

"Congrats, Lils." He says, handing them a stuffed stag, animated with magic.

Henriks regards the man before him, his dark magic seductive and tantalizing. He moans a little, and lifts two arms, asking for a hug. Sirius complies easily, and Henrik snuggles deeper into his touch. The man's magic reminds him of his mother's, and Henrik wonders if they're related. The Blacks did get around, and he knows Esther was a Pureblood, as well as a Slytherin.

He hates the wizard with the white beard and condescending blue eyes. He wails when the man touches him. His magic was disgusting, tainted from his betrayal of his familiar. Albus Dumbledore should have died the moment he turned his wand against Grindleward.

He's eighteen months old when the wards break. A moment later, he feels James' soul leave and tries not to cry. He was a better father than Mikael ever would be. 

Lily is humming a lullaby when the door flies off its hinges and the snake-man steps inside. A pale wand is aimed at his mother, and Henrik is silently begging for her to step aside. He can feel their magic intertwine together-they're familiars, though the man is too insane to realize this, and he would never be able to kill him. 

But the Muggleborn is stubborn, and she falls a minute later. Then the man's crimson eyes is directed at Henrik, and the wand leveled at his forehead.

"Good-bye, Chosen One." He says mocking. 

He intones the curse, and they both scream as the spell rebounds and tears apart his already fractured soul. One part escapes out the window, but Henrik is appropriately horrified when he realizes that the other part has joined together with his. Immediately, it starts to drain his magic like a leech, and it takes all of Henrik's power to slow it down.

He passes out.

When he wakes again, he's in a different crib-the blankets are frayed and dirty, and the wood wobbles dangerously when he tries to move. He cries when the pain in his stomach becomes unbearable, and a horse-like woman appears in his vision. She scowls, and pours sewer water down his throat. He chokes, liquid spilling from his mouth and trickling down his cheeks. The woman only snarls.

It takes a while to piece everything together, but Henrik has always been a horrible legimillizer. From what he learned from Vernon and Petunia, Dumbledore left him on their doorstep after his parents were murdered, for they were his closest relatives.

But, why?

Henrik knows that Sirius Black is his godfather. He was awake when the Goblins performed the ritual, after all. It's also no secret that Alice Longbottom is his godmother, so why was he left with a pair of magic hating muggles?

Never mind, Henrik decides, as he is tossed into a cupboard under the stairs. He could always figure out the reasons later. Right now, he desperately needed to do something about his situation. For while Esther had forbidden him from raising a hand against Mikael, she certainly didn't say anything about Petunia and Vernon Dursley.

It takes the near death of their newborn son and an unfortunate accident in traffic before they learn. For all their advanced technology, there are still Muggles nowadays who are as thick as they had been a thousand years ago.

They move him into the second smallest bedroom, and gives him clothes they found in rubbish bins. Henrik raises an eyebrow, breaks Petunia's right arm, and they come back fifteen minutes later with shopping bags from Armani. He snorts at he looks through the fabric, knowing Rebekah would kill to wear these clothes.

By the gods, he missed her.

Her missed all of them. Finn, Elijah, Rebekah, Kol. He even missed Niklaus, the cause the his demise. He wondered how they fared after his death, and prayed that none went insane trying to bring him back. He especially hoped that Esther, who had already lost one children to disease, would not do something drastic in her grief.

Henrik sighs. Who was he kidding? Esther was already borderline insane. Making love to one other than your familiar does that to a witch, and it was only Esther's huge reservoir of power that kept her somewhat sane. Although, having five squibs for children probably did not help her sanity.

He groans, and smiles when the Dursleys flinch.

One day, he's sitting in the garden, back against a tree and flipping an ancient tomb he accidentally found in a thrift shop, and he hears a sibilant voice complaining about the scalding sun. Minutes later, a snake appear in his view, hissing as it joins him under the shade.

/Go away, Human./ It commands, head lifting and flicking his tongue menacingly.

/No, thank you,/ Henrik answers calmly.

/A Speaker!/ it exclaims, delighted. /I have not seen one since the downfall of Tom. It's a pleasure to meet you, Speaker./

/The pleasure is all mine, great serpent./ Henrik returns, years of manners drilled by Esther. /Who is this Tom you speak of?/

The snake preens. /Is Speaker jealous? Do not worry, Tom is far away from here. The Wizards believe him dead, defeated by a mere a child. Impossible! Tom is smart and powerful. He will rise again as the Dark Lord./

A sense of dread forms in his stomach. /You won't be happening to talk about Lord Voldemort, would you?/

It nods happily. /Speaker has heard of him?/

/Of course. Who hasn't heard of the Heir of Slytherin?/

It was a gamble, and the snake would be greatly offended if Tom happened to come from some other bloodline that can speak Parseltongue. But, as Esther told him, Slytherins were stubborn in the manner of gift and blood, and often bred with relatives to keep Parseltongue in their own bloodline. Esther was the first one to marry a man not from the line of Salazar Slytherin, a Muggle at that, and she was thus disowned.

/Yes! Speaker is not like those foolish Wizards. Speaker is smart!/ The snake says. /Would Speaker allow Crona into his lair?/

Henrik extends his arm, and Crona pulls himself up his arm and curls around his torso, his head resting on his left shoulder and next to his ear. /Of course./ Henrik agrees. /My name is Henrik. I live with Muggles./

Crona hisses in displeasure as Henrik stands. /Speaker should be living with stupid Wizards!/

/My sires died in the last Wizard War. A man placed me with my mother's Muggle relatives./ he explains, brushing off the dirt and picking up his tomb.

/Wizards are stupid. Crona will bite him for you./ Crona promises.

Henrik laughs softly, entering the house and ignoring Petunia's scream of terror. /Thank you, Crona./

He was not ready for Primary School.

Being the youngest of seventh children, as well as the only one who has magic, Henrik was quite coddled by his family. They disproved any interaction between him and another children, or gods forbid, a girl, in fear that they would taint his "childish innocence" (Nik's words). Thus, aside from his siblings, he had no practices talking with another human being.

Dudley grew up in the constant fear of dying, and was always quiet and obedient. The other children, however, was loud and brawlish and liked to make pies out of mud. 

Henrik was absolutely disgusted.

He, on the other hand, spoke very little, but his words were clear and precise. His handwriting was flawless, and he always colored inside of the lines.

But did the teacher love him? Oh, no, they feared him. They whispered among themselves and called him unnatural, even going far as suggesting the Dursleys take him to see a doctor.

In his anger, his magic accidentally compelled the Headmaster to walk in front of a commercial truck.

There was no investigation, no trial. The police marked it down as suicide, finding fifty cigarette butts in his office and decided he couldn't handle the stress. But the children saw Henrik's satisfied smile, and know things were not as white as black as the adults made it out to be.

Afterwards, they steered clear of him.

He's reminded of the Horcrux when he's eight and was trying to access the Astral Plane, and failed spectacularly. Henrik knew he could do it. He was a Necromancer, for gods' sake, and he accomplished the task easily in his past life, so what was wrong?

He slid down from his bed and onto the floorboard, closing his eyes as he rearranged himself into a meditating position. He trusted Crona to protect him from any signs of danger, and slipped into his own mind. 

His memories took the form of his old village on a full moon. The door were locked with Esther's special locking charm, and the windows were tightly clamped shut. Only Henrik knew the how to reverse the charm and ask the residents for his memories, his worst with Tatia-Henrik absolutely loathed that girl-and he trusted his secrets with Esther. But he wasn't here to search his memories. He was here to check his magic.

Henrik walked into the middle of the camp, and stared up the ancient White Oak. It glowed an ethereal silver, huge and more magnificent than in his past life, and Henrik was assured that he wasn't about to become a squib anytime soon.

So what was sapping his magic? 

He sensed the presence before he heard the footsteps, and turned around, muscles tense and prepared for an attack. A boy stood a few feet away, with straight black hair laying against his head and round, blue eyes. His posture screamed confidence and arrogance, though he couldn't be older than ten years old. The two boys regarded each other with equal curiosity, before Henrik bowed his waist in a traditional Pureblood greeting.

"My name is Henrik Mikaleson, the fifth son and seventh child of the Pureblood Esther Slytherin and the Muggle Mikael Mikaelson. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

To his delight, the boy returned the gesture. "You may. I am Tom Marvolo Riddle Junior, the only son and heir of the Pureblood Merope Gaunt and the Muggle Tom Riddle Senior. It's nice to meet you."

Henrik paused. /Tom Riddle?/ He questioned in Parseltongue, watching as the boy widened his eyes in surprise. /You won't be Lord Voldemort, would you?/

/I am./ The boy acknowledged. 

/Then what are you doing in my head?/ Henrik asked. /And why do you look so young?/

Tom frowned. /I do not know./ He admits. /I remember trying to kill Harry Potter, but the curse rebounded and I appeared under that tree as a baby./ He pointed behind Henrik, at the White Oak. /I sensed that it was your magic core, and attempted to drain it in order to return to my true form. Next thing I know, I was flung back and could not approach it ever since./

Henrik nodded, the puzzles pieces finally shifting into place. He remembers using his power to stop the soul fragment from leeching on his magic, which would explain why he couldn't access the Astral Plane.

Now, what to do about the Horcrux. 

Henrik couldn't kill it. It's a soul fragment of his familiar. But Henrik can't keep it in here. It's taking a huge reservoir of his powers to prevent it from draining his magic, and he doesn't think it wouldn't try if he lifts the spell. Just like he doesn't trust it to tell it that he's a Necromancer, and that Harry Potter is the name of his second life. 

"How do I help you get a body?" He says instead. "I really don't fancy having a soul piece in my head."

The Horcrux eyes him suspiciously, decides it could kill Henrik after everything is said and done, and tells him about the diary in the Malfoy's library.

Henrik bows, and slipped out of his mind.

He transfigures one of his shirt into a dark green cloak, allows Crona to coil around his middle, and walks into the kitchen. 

"Come, Petunia." He orders coldly. "Take me to Diagon Alley."


	2. Chapter 2

She drives him to Central London, and points him to a building squeezed tightly between two enormous designer stores. "The entrance is in a room at the back of the pub." She explains shakily. "The barman will show you it if you ask properly."

Henrik snarls, because even if Wizards are idiots and leaves one of their own with Muggles, they're not simpletons and an eight year old child wandering the streets of London on his own will raise questions. Consequently, he takes Petunia's jaw in his hands, forces her to stare at his eyes, and delves into her mind.

The memory is on the surface of her thoughts, but Henrik never claimed to not be a sadistic bastard and made sure to make the process as painful as possible. He watches carefully as an auburn-haired man led the Evans family into the backroom, where he tapped on a brick wall with his wand, revealing the entrance. Henrik replays the memory until he memorizes the pattern, and leaves Petunia's head. She's screaming when he returns to reality.

/Speaker should let Crona bite her./ Crona says. /Monkey is too loud. Crona will make sure the pain lasts as long as possible./

/Later, I promise./ Henrik says. "Petunia, do not, under any circumstances, tell Dumbledore about this visit, do you understand?"

The woman whimpers pathetically. "Y-yes."

"Good." Henrik opens the car door, "don't wait up."

He tugs the cloak closer to his body, concealing Crona, and pulls the hood over his head. Petunia drives away without a backward glance as he darts into the pub. The inside was dank and gloomy, and no one spares him a second look as he slips out the rear door and into the courtyard. Focusing a silver of magic into his index finger, he taps the bricks in quick succession. Henrik smiles victoriously when the wall shifts to reveal Diagon Alley.

He had heard tales of the magical street from Esther, and he was greatly unimpressed by the real thing. The enchantments placed were spells he learned when he was a child. There was no real magic used, only gimmicks and tricks that Muggles could nowadays easily mimic.

/Too many foolish Wizards./ Crona mumbles unhappily as Henrik tries to push their way through the crowd. /Crona bite?/

/Not yet./ He answers quietly.

Henrik makes his way to the fork of the road and climbs up the white marble stairs to enter the blessedly empty Goblin Bank. He comes to a stop in front one of the desks, waiting impatiently for the Goblin to acknowledge his presence. After a minute, the gray creature glances up with a disdainful glare. "Go away, boy. I do not deal with children."

"Watch you tone, Bhrrak," Henrik snarls back, picking up the name from the silver plaque written in gobbledygook. "I may be a child, but I am a customer. I support your money supply, and I demand you treat me with respect."

The goblin hisses in displeasure. "Very well, sir." He snaps his bony fingers, and a rune etched into the desk lit up crimson. "Wait here. Griphook will be right-"

"No." Henrik interruptes. "I demand to seek an audience with the accountant responsible for the finance of the Slytherins, Ragnorak."

Bhrrak pauses. "Do not meddle in things you do not understand, child."

Henrik lifts one hand, and Bhrrak screams as the blood cells in his brain burst open one by one. He falls out of his stool, and the other goblins watches in horrid fascination as blood trickles out of his ear and nose. None offers their assistance.

After two minutes, Henrik lets his arm fall back to his side. "I warned you, Bhrrak. While most Wizards nowadays are idiots, there are still some of us who hasn't forgotten the old way." 

The creature nods quickly, head resting in a pool of blood as his limbs twitches pathetically in the aftermath. His arms are shaking as he raises them, and a different set of runes glow as he snaps his fingers again. After a few minutes, an aging goblin hobbles to their place. Last time Henrik saw him, Ragnorak was an old thing. And he hasn't gotten any younger over the years, either. His movements are slow and harsh as he leads Henrik back into his office. He mentions for Henrik to sit as they enter.

"Now, then, young sir," Ragnorak says, "How can I help you?"

Henrik smirks, leaning back in his chair and stapling his fingers together, both of his elbows resting on the armrests. "Why, I’m here to reclaim the Slytherin Vault, of course."

Ragnorak eyes him carefully, "I'm afraid your claim is invalid, young sir, for there's already been one recognized lord-"

"Yes, yes," Henrik sighs impatiently. "But I'm not talking about the small wealth that was claimed by one Tom Marvolo Riddle-Gaunt, otherwise known as Lord Voldemort. I'm talking about the rest of the Slytherin Vault, the fortune sealed away by Esther Slytherin one thousand years ago."

Ragnorak is silent for a beat. "Very well then, young sir. I see no harm for you to try. But first, let's verify your identity."

From his desk, he pulls out a blank piece of parchment and a feather quill. "This is a blood quill," Ragnorak explains patiently. "It works to verify your identity by using your blood as the ink. The parchment will then test the blood, and light up gold if the blood corresponds with the name. Please write your full name legibly, young sir." 

Henrik nods in understanding, and picks up the quill. First, he tries Harry James Potter, which causes the letters to shine a pale silver.

"Your full name, young sir." Ragnorak reminds gently.

Oh, right, Harry is short for Harrison. Henrik writes that underneath his first attempt. The result is the same.

Maybe...

He scratches out the two names, and writes Henrik Mikaelson above them.

The parchment lights up gold this time, and Henrik heals his hand with a satisfied smile. Harrison James Potter might have been the name Lily and James bestowed him with, but he will always identify himself as Henrik, in this life, and all future ones.

Ragnorak raises one thick eyebrow at the name, "so you're a reincarnated soul, young sir."

"I suppose so," Henrik shrugs. "Mother performed the ritual shortly after we moved to the New World-what you call America, now-though I didn't actually expect it to work. I wonder if she ever repeated it on my siblings."

"She doesn't need to, does she?" Ragnorak says. "After all, they're immortal."

Henrik leans forward instantly, "what?"

"You didn't know?" Ragnorak questions. "It was shortly after your death, young sir. Esther, once again, broke the rules of nature and turned them immortal. I don't know the specifics but-"

"That's fine." Henrik allows. "Do you know where they are, however?"

"Not presently, young sir. Although, with seven drops of your blood, I am sure we can perform a tracking spell. It might cost a few sickles." The goblin's eyes gleams.

"That wouldn't be necessary right now." Henrik refutes. "But you're certain they are all safe and sound?"

Ragnorak coughs. "That would depend on your definition, young sir."

"But they are not dead? Nor in any immediate danger?" Henrik presses.

"None at all, young sir.”

"Good." Henrik leans back again in his chair. "Now, let's talk business."

Ragnorak smiles, lips stretch back to reveal a set of sharp teeth. "As you wish, young sir. Now, I believe it is not necessary to perform the steps Ms. Slytherin required, as you have already proven to be her son. Though, I'm afraid you cannot take back what Lord Riddle-Gaunt has already claimed as his-"

"That is totally fine."

"-but the rest of the fortune is completely yours." Ragnorak pulls open a file from another drawer of his desk and lays if flat. He hands a page to Henrik, which seems to detail all of his possessions. Henrik scans over everything, and nods in satisfaction. He doesn't care much for the coins, though he might comb over the artifacts some other time. The properties, however...

"It says here that I have four properties-one in Norway, one in Wales, and one in France-but why does the fourth one in America say 'unavailable'?"

"Ah," Ragnorak takes out another page from the file, "that property in America refers to the hut you lived in as a child. It has been burned down, but that piece of land is technically still belongs to the Slytherins. A ward has been activated to prevent anyone outside of your relations to build on the land."

"Alright, then." Henrik nods. "What about the rest of my properties? Are the house elves still there?"

"No, young sir." Ragnorak shakes his head regretfully. "The Ministry summoned them back a few centuries ago. They did, however, pay the required fees to the Slytherin Account." 

Henrik gives a sharp nod. "I want to transfer everything, except those belong to Riddle, to another account."

"That's easy, young sir. Where shall I move them?"

Henrik hesitates, "the Potter Vault."

"Ah..." Ragnorak hums. "That's simple from my end. However, you might still want to have a talk with the Potter Goblin."

That is how Henrik finds himself being led to another office, this one belonging to Karnak, the accountant responsible for the Potter's finances. The two goblins converses for a while between them as Henrik settles into the chair, before Ragnorak leaves, closing the door behind him, and Karnak sits himself down opposite of Henrik. He looks to be younger that Ragnorak, but his voice is low and rough when he speaks.

"Ragnorak has explained your situation, Heir Potter. I see no issue in moving everything to the Potter Vault, though it will require a small fee. However, I was just wondering whether you would like to see the financial report of the Potters? It has been neglected for some time now, ever since your parent's death."

Henrik nods. "Yes, actually, that will be lovely."

Karnak pulls out a file and hands Henrik a piece of parchment, who frowns as he looks at the page.

“Why is Dumbledore the holder of my trust vault key?” He demanded.

“Albus Dumbledore is Hogwart’s headmaster, and therefore the magical guardian to all the children that are and will be attending the school, specifically, to those who do not already have one, like muggleborns.” Karnak explains patiently. “He attends to the magical aspect of their affairs, including their bank accounts. Since your parents are dead, and your godfather was sentenced to Azkaban-”

“Azkaban? What is that?” Henrik interrupts.

Karnak levels an acidic glare, and Henrik mutters an apology. “Azkaban is a magical prison, guarded by dementors.”

Well, at least now Henrik knows the man didn’t abandon him on purpose. He knows what dementors are, and how impossible it was to even move after meeting one. Henrik shudders at the thought, thankful that they hadn’t yet been introduced to the New World during his last life. 

“And what did Sirius do to be convicted?”

“He betrayed your parents, of course.” Karnak says easily. “Black, assigned as the Secret Keeper, sworn to protect the Potters under the Fidelius Charm, told Voldemort where they were hiding. He was also culpable of the murder of twelve muggles and one wizard, Peter Pettigrew. ”

Henrik furrows his eyebrows. Admittedly, he had detected tendrils of dark arts on the man, so maybe his loyalty to the Dark Lord wasn’t unexpected. On the other hand, Sirius Black was fond of his parents, and Henrik was certain the man adored him, brief as their interactions were.

Something wasn’t adding up.

Henrik pushes the thought away as his scar throbbed, reminding him of his original purpose. He makes a mental note to look into the incident, and glances down at the page again, fingers tapping against the parchment.

“If he is in control of my key, does that mean he can withdraw money from the vault?”

Karnak nods in confirmation. “Certainly. However, nothing has been taken out of the trust vault after your parent’s death.”

“Is there any way to…recall the key?”

The goblin shakes his head. “Not until you graduate Hogwarts, when Dumbledore no longer has any authority over his students, or you reach the year seventeen, when you will be magically recognized as an adult. Before then, the key remains with the guardian.”

Henrik presses his lips together tightly, displeased. “And what of the family vault? The one I inherit when I turn seventeen? Does Dumbledore also has the key for that, and if he does, has he withdrawn anything?”

“Yes, Dumbledore does indeed also has the key for family vault, which will also be returned once you become a legal adult. I believe an artifact was removed after your parents’ death, which he, as your magical guardian, is legally allowed to do.”

“I assume this means I cannot access either of the vaults until I receive the keys?”

“That is correct, Heir Potter.”

“Which means it will be incredibly stupid of me to transfer everything from the Slytherin Vault to the Potter one.”

Karnak grins, “Exactly.”

Henrik sighs. “Then, can you please inform Ragnorak—“

“Of course, Heir Potter.”

Henrik returns his attention to the parchment, taking a moment to note the Potter’s outrageous wealth, before studying the two properties in his possession. One was the Potter Manor, located on the edge of England and Scotland. There were six house elves currently assigned to take care of the property. The second was a small cottage at Godric’s Hollow, the house where Henrik grew up in. There are no house elves listed under its service, but there is note attached to the property, stating it had been “preserved in its ruined state”. 

Henrik raises an eyebrow, but ignores it for the meantime.

“Am I allowed to visit any of my properties?” He asks the goblin.

Karnak gives a sharp nod. “I shall send someone to retrieve the portkeys, Heir Potter. Please give me a moment.”

He scribbles a message on a piece of parchment, and snaps his bony fingers. The page disappears. A few minutes later, another goblin enters the room, five jewelries in his hands. He passes them to Karnak, who presents them to Henrik. The first one is a simple ring, a band of silver, while the other is gold with a heavy amethyst stone resting in the middle. The third object is a bracelet, and the fourth an intricate brooch. The last one is an arm ring, made to create the image of a snake coiled tightly around the wearer’s biceps. 

“This one,” Karnak explains, tapping the more elaborate ring, “is the portkey to the Potter Manor. It is activated with the word ‘karma’. That one is the portkey to Godric’s Hollow, which you can activate with ‘protection’. The rest, as they are properties that belonged to the Slytherin family, is supposedly activated with parseltongue, and as such, we have yet to decipher the activation code or the location it leads to.” The goblin says, reluctant to admit his ignorance.

Henrik slips the rings on his fingers, where they automatically slims down to fit his digits snugly, recognizing his heritage and accepting him as their owner. The rest he struggles with, the arm ring scalding his skin when he touches it. He resolves to deal with them later, storing them in a drawstring pouch he transfigures from a strand of his hair and putting it in his pocket.

“I believe I am done here,” he stands up, leaving the parchment on Karnak’s desk, “unless there are other things that require my immediate attention.”

The goblin follows his movement. “None at all, Heir Potter. It was pleasure doing business with you.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Karnak.” Henrik replies in Gobbledegook. “May Magic bless you and your family.”

“And yours, as well.”


	3. Chapter 3

After withdrawing a total of three hundred galleons from his Slytherin bank account, Henrik steps out of the bank and prepares himself for the bustling of Diagon Alley. Crona hisses in disapproval of the large crowd, and Henrik pets her in an attempt to calm her as he begin to weave around the wizards scurrying about. His scar pulses, reminding him of his reason to come here in the first place.

Except, Henrik has no plan on how to go about it.

Oh, he has some ideas. Lucius Malfoy, if he was exactly as Riddle had described, would jump at the chance to meet the Boy-Who-Lived. He would run around in joy if he knew Henrik can speak Parseltongue, and he would react like a shark who smelled blood if he realized Henrik had inherited the Slytherin Vault and title. The problem was how to tell him.

After all, why would the defeater of the Dark Lord willingly contact one of his followers?

As he ponders this problem, Henrik wanders the street of the alley, dodging to avoid misshapen magic and flailing limbs. Children runs around him, laughing and screaming loudly, and Henrik is reminded, for one obscure second, of times when he would play with his siblings, twisting his magic to his advantage.

Then, Crona begins to hiss insistently, and Henrik snaps out of his revere.

/What is it, Crona?/ He asks.

/Rats!/ Is her only reply.

Following Crona’s line of sight, Henrik finds her staring at a pet shop, where the window display shows rats of all breeds. Henrik laughing quietly. /Hungry?/

/Very/ Crona says. /Rats!/ She demands again.

With a fond chuckle, Henrik makes his way to Magical Menageries. He had grabbed a few fat, juicy rats, with Crona’s approval, and was just about to pay for them, when he catches a flash of white-blond. Turning, Henrik barely manages to hide his smirk as he realizes that his target was standing only a few feet from him. 

Lucius Malfoy looks exactly like Riddle had described-a pale, pointed face with a pair of grey eyes, and blond hair that fell to his shoulders. There was a miniature version of Lucius standing beside him, who could only be his son, Draco Malfoy. A woman stands beside the two, blond hair curled and blue eyes piercing as she watches her child beg his father for a pet.

“But, Father-!” The boy whines shamelessly.

As he pays for the rats, a rough plans begins to form in his mind. After he feeds them to Crona, Henrik, with his hood pulled down, approaches the Malfoy quickly and quietly. He purposefully trips on Lucius’ cane, splays himself in a way that makes it impossible for anyone to miss the snake wrapped around his torso, and waits.

Predictably, the Malfoys turn, varying degrees of annoyance on their aristocratic faces. The expressions, however, is wiped off as Henrik sits up and pushes the hair out of face, revealing the scar on his forehead. Ignoring their stares, Henrik mumbles his apologies as he struggles to stand, all the while murmuring softly to Crona to make sure she’s not hurt.

When he looks up, Lucius’ eyes are as wide as a saucer.

“I’m really sorry, Sir, Ma’am.” Henrik says again, biting his lips and shifting his stance.

Narcissa is the first to react. “No worries, Mr. Potter. Are you hurt anywhere?”

Henrik shakes his head, a faint blush tainting his pale skin. “N-no, Ma’am.” He pauses. “How do you know my name?”

“You’re Harry Potter!” Draco cries. “Of course everyone knows you!”

Henrik widens his eyes. “I-sorry?”

“Mr. Potter,” Lucius cuts in, voice smooth, “Do you not know your own history?”

Defensively, Henrik tugs his cloak closer to his body. “To be frank, Sir, I didn’t even know I had a name until a week ago.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath. “Excuse me?” Narcissa asks.

“M-my relatives, Ma’am. They always called me ‘freak’.” Henrik darts his eyes to the side.

“Your relatives?”

“My aunt and uncle. And my cousin, of course. They’re Muggles-is that the right term, for people without magic?” When Henrik looks at Lucius for confirmation, there’s   
indignation shining in his pale eyes. 

“Muggles, you grew up with Muggles.” Draco says flatly, disgust twisting around his words.

“I-yes, I suppose I did.”

“But you’re Harry Potter!” Draco says again, like a broken record. Suddenly, he whirls on Lucius. “Father, we must adopt him-he simply cannot continue to live with Muggles!”

Henrik lets fear color his eyes. “Oh, you don’t have to do that, Sir. My relatives are quite nice-they give me food twice a week-”

Narcissa coughs. “Excuse me?”

“-and my cupboard has loads of space. There is simply no need for adoption, Sir. Ma’am.”

“They kept you in a cupboard?” Draco squeaks. “That’s no place for-for you! Slaves sleep in cupboards! House elves sleep in cupboards!”

Henrik blinks innocently, cocks his head to the side. “What are house elves?”

Draco looks as if he wants to groan, and only the fact he is in public stops him. “Father-!”

“At least let us treat you to an early dinner, Mr. Potter.” Narcissa suggests.

Henrik backs away hastily, hands held out. “No no no, I couldn’t possibly-”

“I must insist, Mr. Potter.” Lucius implores.

“Please, Harry?” Draco begs.

Henrik bites his lips. “Well…”

That’s how he finds himself twenty minutes later, sitting in a prestigious restaurant on a road branched off of Diagon Alley. Draco has placed himself beside Henrik, bouncing excitedly as he recommends which entrée to order.

“You have got to try the baby scallops! Oh, maybe you like tuna better? Ah, how about some clams-?”

Lucius smiles indulgently behind his wine glass. “Let the boy make his own decision, Draco.”

“I think I’ll just have the tomato soup, if you don’t mind.” Henrik mumbles quietly, closing the menu. Crona tightens her grip on him, and a passing waiter sniffs in disdain. Henrik had almost been denied entrance into the restaurant, but Lucius had given the hostess a look-and there had been no further complications. Henrik could see why the older man had been Riddle’s right hand man. 

Narcissa, who sits across from him, frowns. “We are not short on money, Mr. Potter, if that is why you are so conserved with your choice.”

“No, no, of course not.” Henrik shakes his head furiously. “I just. Well.” He pauses. Looks down. Fiddles with the edge of the tablecloths. “My stomach is unused to food. Too much, and I will vomit.”

Draco wrinkles his nose. “It’s disgusting what they did to you. Really, they should be thrown into Azkaban, Muggle or not.”

“What’s A-Azkaban?” Henrik questions, though he already knew the answer.

Narcissa’s voice is low when she answers. “Azkaban, Mr. Potter, is the prison of the Wizarding World. It is guarded by a species known as Dementors, and houses the most terrifying of criminals.”

“Including your godfather, Sirius Black.” Lucius adds, grey eyes resting on Henrik as he waits for a reaction.

He isn’t disappointed. Henrik leans in immediately, but attempts to look as he was trying to hide his eagerness. “My g-godfather, Sir? I didn’t know I had one…?”

“Well, after what he did, we couldn’t very well keep him near you, now could we?” Lucius says lightly, folding the dinner napkin over his lap. 

“Lucius, please.” Narcissa reprimands, hoping to redirect the conversation. 

Henrik ignores her, focusing intently on Lucius. “After what he did?”

“He betrayed you parents to the Dark Lord.” Lucius reveals. “Their position was under a Fidelius Charm, and Sirius Black was their Secret Keeper. However, he was a spy, and told the Dark Lord. That’s how your parents died, Mr. Potter.”

“O-oh.” Henrik whispers faintly. “Then how am I…?”

“Alive? Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Draco cuts in, obviously frustrated at being excluded from the conversation. “There are rumors, of course, but nobody knows for sure! The Dark Lord was dead, and you were gone!”

Henrik stares at the younger Malfoy, and the plan solidifies in his head.

“Are you quite certain, Draconisss?” Henrik says, drawing out the boy’s name. 

Narcissa gasps softly as the sibilant hiss reaches her ears. Henrik glances at her, and their eyes meet, one pair blue, and the other crimson. “Y-your eyes.” She whispers, voice trembling.

Henrik smirks charmingly, “Cisssssy, darling. I trust you are well?” 

She nods, lips quivering. Henrik turns to her husband, whose face matches the shade of his hair. “M-my Lord?”

“Indeed,” Henrik confirms. 

Lucius’ mouth falls open. “How is this possible?”

Henrik raises one eyebrow, “do you doubt my words, Luciusss? Would you care for a demonssstration?”

“That w-won’t be necessary, my Lord.” Lucius says, eyes flickering to Crona.

“Are you all ready to order?” a waitress cuts in.

Henrik looks up, the red fading away. “Yes, please, Miss.” He grins toothily.

The Malfoys blink, disoriented at the sudden change in his demeanor. They struggle to pull themselves together while the waitress waits, tapping the end of her quill against her parchment. “Well?”

“I’ll have a bowl of tomato soup, please,” Henrik says, while he swings his legs and kick Lucius roughly in the shin. The man jumps, snaps to attention, and clears his throat. He orders for his family quickly, eager to dismiss the waitress as soon as possible.

“Your orders will be ready in a few minutes.” The waitress says, and leaves.

Narcissa exhales. “My congratulations on your return, My Lord.”

Henrik smiles at her, amused by her accelerating heartbeat. “Thank you, Cissy.”

“If I may be so bold to ask, My Lord,” Lucius speaks up, “what are your plans now?”

Stretching languidly in his seat, Henrik takes his time to answer. He does not miss Draco’s flinch as Henrik moves. “Lucius, are you concerned the safety of your family now that   
you have a son? Do not worry, I will give him the chance to grow up.”

Both Lucius and Narcissa slumped forward in relief. “Thank you, My Lord.”

“Yes, Lightness and peace will remain for now. But, Lucius, remember that it will not last forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title Cred: Born To Die, by Lana Del Rey


End file.
